Just Decapitate Me
by Jeanne Marie
Summary: Iffie, the immortal co-ed, suffers through another school night and meets another member of the gang.


Not my characters, not my original concept. I'm only playing around, and those who do own them obviously don't know what to do with 'em. Thank you to maryh and SouthernChickie, who were the first to review my first ff.net story, convincing me to put this one out there as well. Props once again to BBC, who rocks.   
  
  
Just Decapitate Me  
by Jeanne Marie  
  
  
"What is this crap," Annie demanded.  
  
"Turn it off," went Alicia.  
  
I merely sighed and surrendered the remote to its rightful owner. It was silly of me to think these kids would appreciate the finer things in life. Fawlty Towers just didn't appeal to girls who placed Titanic above sliced bread.   
  
'English accents give me a headache,' say they. Oh, my sainted aunt!  
  
Yet, I could not hold the little dears responsible. It wasn't their fault they were born without taste. In a decade or two I knew their interests would become more all-encompassing (the same way their parents learned to honestly enjoy eating formerly icky things like spinach and brussels sprouts), but I didn't feel like waiting that long. It was time to go back to my own room.  
  
Steph was gone for the moment--doing God only knew what (some of these kids have amassed more time being drunk in their short lives than I have in three millennia). I fell down on my bed and pressed my thumbs to the sides of my head, keeping the swelling of my brain to a minimum, something I'd been doing a lot lately. It was a residual effect from the quickening I'd recently taken. Apparently, the ungroovy, negative vibe-person I'd eliminated from the Game the week before had been prone to migraine headaches.  
  
"Atchoo!" And allergies. I felt like laying down on the nearest railroad track. I hadn't been this sick in...well, I'd never been this sick. This was not how I wanted to conduct my daily existence; coughing and sniffling like some normal, everyday person. With my pounding head and stuffed up nose, all I wanted to do was put on some Neil Young, lie in bed, and be miserable. Scrap that, what I *really* wanted to do was find that puppy dog Duncan I'd met all those weeks ago and aggravate him into taking my head. At least then, I wouldn't have to deal. With this or the coming midterms.  
  
I'm no stranger to the deleterious effects of absorbing all that a person is, but it was never like this. And whatever remains of the loser usually fades after a day or two. So why was I still in a sickened condition after almost a week?  
  
It must be due to some higher power. I've never believed in God or whatever (Well, barring that time early in my immortality, when I revived and came away convinced I was the goddess Athena. Don't ask.), but I was certain this had to be karmic debt or something. I had lived a good, extra-long life, and I was being punished for it.   
  
Ah, self-pity. What a fun thing to wallow in every once in awhile.   
  
A cool breeze heralded the return of my wild roomie. "Hey, Genie," she cheered, like someone who wasn't suffering. I'd become very fond of her over the last few months--the way she would cook for everybody at the drop of a hat, the Cantonese tinge to her words--but merely for the tone of her voice, I could forget myself.   
  
"You talked in your sleep this morning," Steph continued, "My alarm went off, and you kept wailing 'Make it stop, make it stop!'"  
  
"You don't say," I mused as I went to the little girl's room for a tissue. There was no need to tell the child that those same words had been echoing through my skull for the last seven days. I had dreamed about construction workers with jackhammers that night; the noise was unbearable. And it was her alarm the whole time. Very interesting.  
  
"You're usually at the gym this hour, aren't you?"  
  
I glanced at my watch, and sure enough, it *was* time for my workout. Ah well, so much for that. In my current condition, I could barely even think about weight machines, stairmasters, or treadmills without groaning. "I decided to skip it."  
  
"And you ditched work today," Steph scolded, "You little slacker." I almost felt bad about calling in sick for my part-time job at the theater; getting paid to build sets was really very.  
  
"Are you going to Patrick's party then," she inquired, still wholly unconcerned with my ill state of health. Despite my distaste at watching my newfound friends spend their weekends drinking far more than was good for them, I usually went along, just to make sure nobody really crossed the line. After the first few parties, I realized that such an instance was highly unlikely. A few glasses of Zinfandel or cans of Red Dog and they were usually down for the count.   
  
Unable to stop myself, I intoned morosely, "No, I thought I'd stay here and figure out a way to kill myself."  
  
"Oh, Genie," Steph laughed, "You are too funny."  
  
I saw no reason to destroy her belief that I was kidding. A second cool breeze told me I had a visitor. This time it was someone I could talk to, my not-enough-room-for-all-the-greats-granddaughter Jessie. Steph saw that we wanted to be alone and went on her merry little way.  
  
A long, long time ago, I married a sweet little widower named Alesa, who already had a small child. He ended up dying a short while after the wedding, leaving me with six-year-old Sarai. My heart wouldn't let me dump the girl with her mother's money-grubbing relations, so I kept her. When she started noticing I didn't look any different from when she first met me, I told her the truth. My Sarai went on to marry and furnish me with ten wonderful grandchildren. A few years after her wedding, I relocated, so as not to arouse the suspicion of her new family, but we stayed in contact. It was all just as simple as it sounded (life tended to be that long ago).  
  
When Sarai's oldest daughter, Chriseis, reached those formative teen years, she began to rebel, which in those days meant refusing to get married. Sarai begged me to take her in, thinking that I could make my granddaughter see the light or something. Well, young Chrissy witnessed something she shouldn't have while under my roof, and I found I really liked how it felt after she knew about me. I had someone to talk to who would never go for my head, someone who helped me maintain a connection with my daughter. To make a long story short--'too late,' say you--telling my story to the first-born daughter of each generation eventually became a tradition. I resisted the idea at first, knowing the risks and all the other fun stuff that go with knowing too much, but I must admit, it has been nice to have somebody to tell my stories to. Jessie was the latest in a long line of very special people. Just for kicks, I went to high school with her and we got on so well that when she applied for college, I decided to tag along.  
  
After Jessie first learned the truth about me, I had a devil of a time encouraging the kid to forget that I was almost two hundred times her age and to treat me as an equal. It took a while, but slowly and surely, my efforts paid off. "Dang, Iffie. You never looked more like a three-thousand year-old."  
  
I wasn't appreciating it so much right then. Go fig. "I ran out of jelly beans," I said feebly, "I'm nothing without them."  
  
"Jelly beans," she echoed, "Care to start making sense?"  
  
Oh yeah, sometimes I forget who I'm talking to. "In the twenties-"  
  
"Which twenties?" she interrupted.   
  
"The nineteen twenties, sweetness," I answered patiently. "Before Covergirl and Maybelline and all those fat-cat companies who get their jollies testing on animals, I lived in a boardinghouse with a roving band of flappers. We girls used jelly beans for lip-color. It was the only form of cosmetics we had access to."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Have I ever been false to you?"  
  
Jessie smiled. "I dunno, have you?"  
  
My heart ached. These poor kids, I hadn't reached that level of cynicism until I was at least 400. Jessie kept right on grinning. "Seriously though, you're not exactly at your best today. You look like somebody's grandma."  
  
I was inclined to point out that I happened to *be* a grandma (hers in fact) but I didn't get the chance; she was too busy going through my closet. "What in the sam holy hill do you think you're doin'," I requested, amused. I swear, I could watch her like a sitcom. Teenagers are much more entertaining than that tripe they put on t.v. nowadays.  
  
"Picking your outfit," she said, as if this was to be expected, "I am not letting you set foot in another party dressed like..."  
  
"Like what," I prodded.   
  
She turned around and looked me up and down, trying to come up with a proper description of the style that is Iphigenia, and failing. "Like...that," she stated, pointing at me. Jessie, you mistress of the spoken word you.  
  
Then it occurred to me that the word "party" was located in her impassioned speech somewhere. "What party," I asked.  
  
"Um, duh? Patrick's," she replied testily, without even turning around. She was still fully occupied with throwing all my clothes from the closet to the bed and the floor.  
  
The time had come for a little enlightenment. "I'm not going anywhere, not no-way, not no-how."  
  
"Where are your black boots," she asked, ignoring my protestations, "I know you'd rather forget they existed, but I want you to wear your nice pants and those grody oxfords of yours just aren't happening."  
  
"Excuse me, honey child," I interjected tiredly, "But, did I unknowingly slip into Flemish again? I said I'm not going to any party."  
  
"You'll be there," she said dismissively.  
  
"You sound awfully sure of yourself."  
  
"If you don't come with me tonight," she continued, "I'll find that watcher of yours and let her know how well you're not taking this sick-thing. She's sure to stick it in your chronicle."  
  
"You don't even know who she is," I said with a chuckle.  
  
"I know *exactly* who she is."   
  
"Get out?" My curiosity was genuine; I'd tried not to pick my watcher out of the crowd.  
  
The Grinchy grin got even wider when Jessie realized that for the first time in her recollection she knew something I didn't. "Her name's Sheri. Chick's in one of my classes...nice girl, always asks me about you."  
  
I fervently wished she hadn't told me that. It was bad enough knowing that they exist. I did not want to put a name and a personality to someone who by job description shouldn't even have a face; it made things unnecessarily complicated for everyone involved. I had tried to form relationships with some of my watchers in the past, and it always ended badly.  
  
Information notwithstanding however, it was still an empty threat. "You're gonna hafta come up with something better than that, Messie Jessie. What does and what doesn't go into my chronicle has never been up to me before, and those guys don't miss much. For all I know your so-called blackmail material could already be the hottest topic of conversation at Watcher HQ's all over the world. They could have betting pools based on how long it'll take me to recover."   
  
It didn't matter what I said, for she just ignored me again. Jessie appeared to have picked my outfit at long last. Now all I had to do was persuade her to put all the rest of my clothes back where they belonged, but that would take some doing. "How much cash do you have on you," she queried, going for my hand-woven purse from Guatemala, or was it Ecuador?   
  
I chose not to answer. Having practically raised the girl, I knew when she wouldn't give up. I lay back and tried to tune her out, praying that just for tonight she'd go away and turn her attention to her less-than ancient friends, preferably those of the mortal persuasion.   
  
A loud whistle from Jessie made me reluctantly open my tired eyes. I looked up to see her holding out a small piece of paper she'd taken from my bag. "You're *sick*," she said with an interesting mixture of awe and disgust.  
  
Was she just figuring this out now? Did I care? "What prompted this staggering epiphany," I giggled.  
  
She wordlessly handed me the paper clutched in her hands and shook her head. I took it, squinting painfully to make out my own handwriting.   
  
Slitting wrists - slow, painful, and damned messy  
Diving off tall building - even messier, more chance of witnesses  
Eating a bullet - quick and fairly painless, but no gun  
Poison - too risky in too many ways  
Electrocution - let's not go there, that's what got me into this  
Jumping in front of a bus - um ...no  
  
I'd made the list three days before. You see, my tongue was only half in my cheek when I told Steph I was going to kill myself. If the kid had asked me earlier in the week, I would've meant every word. I glanced at Jessie nonchalantly and made a big show of closing my eyes. She knew that I was an immortal who had a decent chunk of time to get accustomed to instantaneous healing, and that I was unduly suffering. She shouldn't have been so surprised.  
  
"I really do not get you," Jessie admitted, still shaking her head. I smiled faintly. When *I* don't even get me I can't very well expect anyone else to. "You have no problem getting run through with a four-foot-long sword or fighting a guy the size of, like, Shaq. It's all gravy. But develop a widdle shniffle and you run screaming for the hills. What's up with that?"  
  
How many times would I fail to live up to someone else's expectations of the three thousand-year-old lady? "Listen," I pleaded, " If I concede to your silly demands will you promise to drop this line of questioning? You're driving me batty!"  
  
Jessie's response was an evil smirk. "Get dressed."   
  
I muttered a string of obscenities, several of which could get me sentenced to death if said in the right time and place. "We better not get busted," was the only coherent thought I was able to vocalize.  
  
Sensing my defeat, Jessie ran over and hugged me--hard. "Don't be so crusty, Iff. It'll be cool."  
  
All she got was a shrug from me. Whatever. Maybe getting completely plotzed would take my mind off my troubles.  
  
However, an hour or so later, as I stared into the glass which contained my fourth beer, I realized that I was beyond all help. The only thing the alcohol did was make me nauseated on top of everything else. Egads, kids really will drink anything! Also, the thought that Jessie was having the time of her short life did not console me in any way.  
  
The drunken teen in question had abandoned the happily pogo-ing bodies on the de facto dance floor and was (eek!) staggering towards me. After an apparent lifetime of struggle, Jessie finally made it across and settled herself down next to me on Patrick's rather unsightly green and red paisley couch.  
  
"Where's that rrroommate of yours?" Oh, to be eighteen again.   
  
"I ate her."  
  
She actually scratched her head at this, as if she wasn't sure if I was telling the truth or not. No less than two minutes later, Jessie decided not. "You're no fun, Iffih-gay-nee-uh," she slurred.  
  
I finished my beer in silence. Maybe she'd realize that I was ignoring her.   
  
Just then an authoritative-sounding voice rang out, putting a stop to Jessie's ministrations. In that one and only sense, it was a good thing. "Party's over," the voice bellowed. "Everybody out."  
  
Right on the heels of this announcement came a smaller, more desperate voice from inside the suite. "The RAs are here. Run for your life!"  
  
We *were* getting busted, how totally keen! Jessie suddenly grabbed my arm with a certain gravity and ordered, "Don't you dare leave me!"  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it, Bubbulah," I cooed as I carefully attempted to pry her fingers from my forearm. She'd never forgive me if I let her break a nail tonight.   
  
I got up and searched for my coat, leaving Jessie on the couch. All around me, youngsters trying to flee were being herded in single-file. Curses, foiled again! The RAs had parked themselves at the door. That meant we were all going to be written up, added to the dreaded "Party List." Dagnabbit!  
  
I sighed as I steered Jessie toward the line with one hand and carried both our coats with the other. The skunky beer I'd ingested was making my stomach churn and I knew the contents of my stomach would not stay where they were for very much longer.   
  
Jessie decided that the bottled blonde in front of me was altogether too merry for someone about to be put on probation and she told her so. Loudly. "I don't go here," the girl said with a smirk, "They can't touch me." The boy closest to the door was telling the RA that likewise, he did not attend this university. Funny thing, that, seeing as he was in my sociology class. It was a good way to avoid being busted, but it was my RA at the door. Abbi knew me, and she knew Jessie. Such tactics would not work for either of us.  
  
At long last, I reached the door. "Name," the grumpy girl demanded, even though she already knew it. It was the principle of the thing.  
  
"Iph-Genie Ajax." Geez, what's with the slip? It's not like I had much to remember. The name I was listed under was kind of a modernization of the one I was given by my parents, plus the surname of my favorite husband, my fourth. The sheer recklessness of forever using differing versions of the same name is not lost on me. I know it makes it that much easier for some unpleasant headhunting type to track me down, but I'm not all that well known. In fact, most members of my race have never even heard of me. I reckon it must be due to all the time I've spent on college campuses. They don't exactly cater to murderous psychotics, y'unnerstan'.  
  
My usually perky little RA person gave me a stiff nod, giving me leave to depart. I hung just outside the door for a half-a-minute, waiting for Jessie. When she was also granted exit, I helped her stumble out into the open air.  
  
It was mighty cold outside. I really don't like the cold. Most of my life has been spent on or near the equator. This was the furthest north I'd dared go, and I would not be going any further. Anyhoo, not for any sufficient length of time. My jaws immediately began clacking. I couldn't take any more. "Cut it out," I snapped.  
  
"Huh? Whadja say?"  
  
Oopsie. I really had to stop saying those things out loud. "Nuthin', lovey. I was talking to my teeth."  
  
"Talking. To your teeth."  
  
"Yes'm."  
  
"Kew." I decided right then that there were definite advantages to her tipsiness.  
  
We found the rest of the condemned just a few feet away, having encrusted themselves around the stoop next door. They were giggling and chatting nervously about the new perspective they had gained on crime and punishment.   
  
"I wonder how I'm gonna feel about this when I'm sober."  
  
"I wonder how Jo is gonna feel about this when you're sober."  
  
"Jo who?"  
  
"Joooo momma!"  
  
Jessie was still entirely too potted to care about such trivial matters. She just plopped down next to me on the steps, and messed up my hair.  
  
I sighed. It could've been worse; at least the police weren't involved. The fact that it wasn't raining was also a major plus in my book. "Who has a fatty for me?" In my experience, I've come to notice that every so often, cigarettes acquire the taste of roasted cow pies. I don't know why this is, but when it happens, I cut down for a month or six. At that moment, I didn't care if smoking tobacco caused complete and permanent hair loss--I *wanted* a cigarette.  
  
Halfway through the loaned cancer stick when it happened, that itchy feeling that starts in the back of my skull and spreads to my tailbone, the Buzz. It was too much for my already shaky digestive system. My cousin Ralph wanted to come out and play--and he didn't feel like waiting. I threw the cig away, bolted off the stoop, and went behind the bushes to make an offering to the unavailable porcelain deity, amid cries of delight and aversion from the miscreants, I mean...delightful youths around me.  
  
When I finished expelling all I had consumed, I wiped my mouth and gazed around for the other Immortal, dimly hoping that whoever it was had not seen what just happened. "Hey Dorian," I called out to the kid nearest to me, "Do you have a tissue or something?"  
  
"Tissue?" She blinked at me from behind glazed eyes. "I don't even *know* you!" The giggling began with increased intensity. I took that as a no.  
  
Thank the misguided gods of good fortune that Jessie was in no condition to remember tonight; I'd hate to imagine all the future generations of my family having a hearty chuckle at my silly expense. 'But darlings, there were extenuating circumstances!' Right, of course there were. I was still having problems from a 200 grade quickening I'd taken a week before and, lest we forget, feeling the effects of four measly beers. What a legacy.  
  
At least this time I didn't look like I'd just come from a slumber party; if one didn't look too closely, I almost appeared dressed up. However, on closer inspection one could detect the small holes in my "good" black pants, which cost me three dollars at Goodwill, and the minute spots of paint on my ten-year-old shoes. The cardigan was a gift, the crimson shell I got for less than five bucks at a discount store. Let's face it--clothes were never high on my list of priorities.   
  
I circled back to the stoop, where Jessie still sat, and grabbed my coat. The anonymous long-lived one still hadn't shown himself, or herself. It was hard to pick someone out of the numerous passing crowds of drunken young adults. I kept at it, though, determined despite myself to see this through. A hidden immortal did not bode well for my continued existence.  
  
Finally, a face in one of the throngs stopped suddenly and turned to meet my searching gaze. It was a young-looking dude, which means less than nothing. He fit in well with the mortal kids, but then so did I. I stood my ground as he pulled away from his group and approached me. I didn't know if the rest of the peanut gallery sensed anything amiss, but I knew Jessie did from her overly loud, inebriated cry of "Shitters!"  
  
Misjudging the reason for her ill-advised yell, the man shifted his gaze to my chemically impaired friend, but a subtle clearing of the throat put him back in my direction. Once he was in the light and he knew I could see his every move, the other member of my race jerked his head to the left. I nodded. Ours was not a conversation to be overheard; we were attracting too much attention already.  
  
"Who dat," Dorian whispered.  
  
"Old boyfriend," I muttered, fingering the hilt of my sword inside my coat. The guy looked pretty solid. Not as thick as that MacLeod, but broad enough to make me a wee bit averse to the idea of fighting him.   
  
We met in back of the dorms a minute later. It was pretty secluded back there, but we were still too close to regular people for a fight to go on. "I'm Richie Ryan," he said.  
  
"Genie Ajax," I answered. Itchy sword arm, eyes darting back and forth, this Richie was young--real young. Therefore I felt no need to impress him in any way. He probably wouldn't get it even if I did tell him my real name.   
  
"Are you looking for a fight," he asked, trying to sound casual and very nearly succeeding. He got moxie points for that.  
  
"Not especially, dear," I admitted, "You? You weren't friends with that total square I met last week, were you?" I tried to keep the disbelief out of my voice. If the man I had killed was one of the youngster's comrades, insulting the dead would only make things worse.  
  
"Who?" His eyes narrowed.  
  
Gulp. I had to open my big mouth. "Littleish dude," I supplied against my better judgement, "Ferretty type. Long black hair and a firearm fetish?"  
  
"Doesn't sound like anyone I know," Richie breathed, "Eeuw, he sounds like a real loser."  
  
"Yeah, well he kinda was."  
  
"Was?"   
  
Sometimes I forgot how inept I appear to other people. "I'm a little older than I look," I confessed, "Been on my own for awhile now."  
  
"Me too," he said with a grin. Aw, this one was even more puppy-like than the last guy! Content with the thought that I wasn't planning on giving him a height adjustment, he stepped forward to take my hand, making my view of him a little better. My heart literally stopped for over a second.   
  
Ooh-dah-lally, what a fine figure of a man!   
  
"What?" Snap out of it, old girl! You've seen brighter blue eyes than those. (True, but not for such a long while.)  
  
"I said, 'Do you go here?'"  
  
"Uh, yeah, I do. Sorry about spacing out on you like that." I had to leave. This kid was having a strange effect on me and I just wanted to go back to my regular boring life. I hadn't had a relationship with a fellow immie in aeons.  
  
"That's perfectly okay," Richie said reassuringly. "You look a little pale; are you alright?"  
  
And caring too. "Dandy, or at least I will be. It was a bad light show. Annoying side effects."  
  
He nodded sympathetically. "Was it your first?"  
  
"No." I bit my lip to keep from laughing.  
  
I think my extensive time on this earth started occurring to Richie, for he asked, "Just how old *are* you?"  
  
"How old are *you*?"  
  
"I asked you first."  
  
Direct and to the point. How I adored the young!   
  
Realization struck. I had enrolled in college this time for the same reason as I had the eleven times before it, for beer and Skittles. Well, I hadn't had many of either. Tonight marked my second probation, the first being academic for my truly awful grades the last semester. With the Gathering at hand, I didn't really care about stuff like that anymore. What was the point of committing to such a mundane existence when I knew that my life could just explode at any time?   
  
The time had come for me to move on. I was ready to take a chance, go somewhere relatively new, and that wasn't all. I was ready for a new adventure.   
  
What the hell? This could be fun. "Tell you what," I said chattily. "How's about we take this argument someplace else?"  
  
He flashed this devastating grin that vaguely reminded me of my Aias, and my knees melted. "What did you have in mind?" Richie reached for my hand.  
  
I took it and squeezed. "Anywhere but here."  
  
THE END  
  
Taking the names of people I knew and pasting them on to characters I'd already written was an idea I kinda stole from Dorian T. Thank you for being there for me, girlfriend. 


End file.
